Before
college, my activism centered around race issues.
When I left the nest, I began to incorporate
women’s issues into my agenda.
When I searched my university community for an
organization that focused on Black women’s
issues, I was met with interesting results.

I started by checking the bulletin board at the
local women’s center for support groups
specifically for Black feminists. Instead I found
drumming circles, a “womyn’s” music
festival in the woods and a few books by Black
women whom I had vaguely heard of, written in
impersonal, academic language.

Throwing caution to the wind, I decided to try
out a few feminist organizations that held meetings
in town. I soon discovered that I was always
the “raisin in the grits,” the lone
brown face in a roomful of White women. Not that
I didn’t support their work or acquire
some allies. I just wanted to find a group where
my culture topped the agenda, and colleagues
didn’t assume I “didn’t need
feminism” because I was such a “strong
Black woman.”

In frustration, I even stopped calling myself
a feminist. Sometimes I’d use Alice Walker’s “womanist,” her
tailor-made term for Black women that acknowledges
both gender and race. My experiences taught me
that a White, middle-class woman who calls herself
a feminist may be attacked by Rush Limbaugh types,
but she can find an established support system
comprised almost completely of women like her.
Women of color rarely experience such encouragement
or empowerment from our affiliation with established
movements. If we declare allegiance to the feminist
movement, finding role models or relevant books
(written in laywoman’s terms) is a whole
new challenge.

After weeks of searching, I found a black feminist
group on campus. The group met weekly to discuss
everything from internalized racism to dealing
with sexual assault. Soon after I joined, however,
the organization came under fire by both men
and women in the university. Members were accused
of badmouthing Black men; there was even a false
rumor that the women in the group were circulating
a list of men who had dogged women. The general
consensus seemed to be that we were a bunch of
bitter, dateless women who were turning our backs
on the Black community. It was even suggested
that we limit our extracurricular memberships
to the Black Student union and black sororities
(many of us were already members of these groups).
Unable to withstand the pressure of community
ostracization on a 93% White campus, most members
stopped showing up to meetings and eventually,
the group folded.

I’ve talked to other women of color who’ve
felt a chalk outline being drawn around their
reputations the minute they set foot on feminist
territory. In this respect, White women have
a definite privilege. Because they don’t
have to rely on White men’s support to
fight racism, they have a lot less to lose by
wearing the feminist badge. I know that if I
stood up in front of a Black audience and declared
myself a feminist, I would also have to explain
that I was the type of feminist that fights for
both civil rights and women’s rights (funny
how we always consider those to be two separate
things). We live in a society where unity at
the expense of one identity or another seems
to be the only way to be heard. And sexism always
seems to be the easiest card to toss aside in
the name of this “unity.” Maybe that’s
why there was so much controversy surrounding
the Million Man March. After all those years
of sistas being told to shelve our issues as
Black women “for the good of the community,” the
same leaders expected us to swallow the idea
that a historical Black event that openly excluded
women was also “for the good of the community.”

There’s a “ghetto” of women
like me whose issues are ignored and experiences
marginalized by mainstream feminism. Much like
people in the literal ghetto, we are a disunified
mass lacking large support networks and a name
that reflects our experience. We commit random
acts of feminism (which often go unrecognized)
and excuse them with, “I’m not a
feminist but…” Many of us raise
our children alone, single-handedly fulfilling
both the mother and father roles. And, among
the sistas, being outspoken is considered an
asset. We often take these personal strengths
for granted (and are often attacked for them
by everyone from boyfriends to the U.S. government).
Yet, they are the “do-for-self” traits
that White feminists have been struggling to
incorporate into their own lives for years.

In fact, Black women have been the invisible
participants in almost every major political
struggle in the U.S. Though few of us were given
a chance to emerge in the forefront, we were
the backbone of the women’s suffrage movement,
the civil rights movement, the feminist movement,
the Black power movement and even the Million
Man March. The irony is that while our very existence
in this racist, sexist country can be seen as
a form of resistance, we remain in the political
ghettos of every movement we have been a part
of. Maybe that’s why so many black women
now seem to share an apolitical attitude. Why
should we jump at the idea of being the token
Back woman in an organization run by White women
or Black men? Who would find pleasure in working
hard and never seeing their issues on the agenda?

Recently, I began to question my role as a Black
feminist. Why can’t I call myself a feminist
and get the same support as anyone else? Why
can’t I claim the title without people
assuming I’m forgetting my race? Why can’t
I expect the typical feminist circle to be multicultural
or even predominantly Black? I’m still
trying to figure out where the handful of Black
feminists like Patricia Hill-Collins, Audrey
Lorde and bell hooks get their support.

Today I realize that Black women do have some
of our own organizations, like church groups
and sororities. These are the arenas where we
can, at times, receive the recognition and support
that we deserve. I took these groups for granted
because they did not fit the status quo of mainstream
feminism.

By the same token, there are definitely White
women who want Black women and other women
of color involved in feminist organizations
and events. Still, at a number of women’s
festivals and conferences I’ve attended,
I noticed the “Women of Color” tent
or the “Women of Color Information Table” and
wondered how thousands of cultures could neatly
fit in these designated areas. I began to feel
as if these spaces were the only ones that
I was allowed to hang out in.

Until
the day comes when I feel I don’t have
to check my ethnicity or my womanhood at the door,
I’ve decided on the title of “Ghetto
Feminist.” Black women deserve to be full
partners in the struggles of both women and the
Black community-without being asked to choose one
struggle over another. In many ways, it’s
up to us to make sure our concerns are on the table.
We have to get together to decide what our issues
are before anyone else can help us fight for them.
I’ve found a handful of cool organizations
by and for Black women; groups which I hope will
someday become household names the way NOW (National
Organization for Women) has. In the meantime, ghetto
feminists, let’s stand together—it’s
kind of lonely out here.

About HUES
No longer in publication, HUES (Hear Us Emerging Sisters) Magazine was created in 1992 at the University of Michigan by twins Tali and Ophira Edut and their "spiritual triplet" Dyann Logwood. Frustrated with unrealistic images and issues presented in women's magazines, the three decided to create an alternative. Thus, HUES was born to promote self-esteem, sisterhood and education in women of all cultures, sizes and lifestyles.